C. Palov - Ark of Fire

Caedmon glanced at Edie, only the pale oval of her face visible in the inky darkness; both of them were garbed in dry diving suits with matching black hoods.

“You know, maybe we should let British intelligence handle this,” Edie said in a hushed voice. “It’s not too late.”

Seated across from her, he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the top of his thighs. “Until MacFarlane actually steps foot inside Jerusalem, there’s little that British intelligence or Mossad can do to stop him. Those chaps don’t hold much truck with doomsday prophecies. And though the intelligence agencies will do all in their power to prevent a terrorist act from occurring on the Temple Mount, they won’t be able to act until they have material proof that MacFarlane intends to commit the unthinkable. I, however, am no longer bound by such dictates.”

“Yeah, but short of killing Mac—” She slapped a hand over her mouth. A second later, she lowered it. “That’s exactly what you’re intending to do, isn’t it?”

“In order to destroy a serpent, one must decapitate it.”

“But what if the snake turns around and bites you?”

Rather than answer the question put to him, he instead said, “I think you should return to Valletta with the captain.”

“I told you once already, you’ll have to knock me unconscious to stop me from going with you to Calypso’s—What’s happening?” she hissed, clearly startled.

“No need for alarm. The captain has merely cut the engine.”

“So this is our stop, huh?” She stared at the remote and off-putting promontory that loomed above the small vessel.

Caedmon peered upward. The limestone cliff rose approximately two hundred meters above the sea. “Yes, I know. It has a decidedly Gothic aspect.” As he spoke, he stepped over to the side of the boat, his neoprene booties softly smacking against the deck. Edie followed in his wake, dashing his hope that she’d have a change of heart at the last.

“Right. Let’s get to it,” he said, swinging his leg over the side. A second later, he plunged into the cold sea, grateful they had only a short distance to traverse.

Treading water, he watched as Edie jumped ship and proved herself an able swimmer.

A few minutes later, shivering from the cold and breathing heavily from their exertions, they emerged onto a spindly strip of land that was strewn with chunks of rock that had fallen from the cliff face. At a glance, Caedmon could see that the fishing vessel had already begun its homeward voyage, the captain not bothering to confirm whether they had safely landed.

Removing her hood, Edie jutted her chin at the imposing sea cliff. “Without climbing gear, I don’t know how we’re going to get up that sucker.”

“I have it on good authority that there’s a narrow trail not far from here.” That authority being none other than the hotel bartender, who had laid claim to ascending the cliff on many a youthful outing. Something of a local rite of passage.

He swung a rubberized rucksack off his shoulder. Opening it, he removed yet another watertight bag, from which he removed a coil of wire, a sheathed diving knife, a green laser light, two torches, the GPS receiver, the topographical map, and two pairs of athletic shoes. Inventory verified and double-checked, he unzipped and removed his dry suit. Like Edie, he had worn black hiking attire beneath his suit.

“Guess it’s time for the final reckoning, huh?” Although Edie attempted a brave smile, she fell woefully shy of the mark.

“Yes, I’m afraid that the time has come.”

Rearing back his arm, his right hand balled in a fist, he delivered a quick, precise blow to the side of Edie’s head.

Instantly, her eyes rolled backward, Caedmon catching her as she pitched forward in an unconscious heap. KO’d by the ghost fist that she never saw coming.

Very gently he laid her on a bed of saltwort, using the empty rucksack as a pillow for her head. He then placed a torch in her lax hand. If he didn’t return before she came to, or if he didn’t return at all, she would be able to signal for help.

Still on bent knee, he leaned forward and softly kissed her on the lips.

I’m sorry, love. You gave me no choice.

CHAPTER 82

Unable to stop what had become an almost compulsive behavior, Stan MacFarlane again glanced at the innocuous shipping container on the other side of the tower room.

Before permitting the Ark to be packed for transport, he’d spent hours gazing upon it. Awestruck. For someone accustomed to the severe austerity of a Baptist church, the Ark had about it an almost pagan beauty. From the fierce pair of winged cherubim mounted on the gold lid to the strange and incomprehensible symbols incised on all four sides, it bespoke an ancient and holy heritage. A time when Moses led the Hebrew children to the land promised to them by God.

Anxious, he pushed his folding chair away from the camp table and reached for the pair of night-vision goggles. NVGs in hand, he walked over to the square-cut opening on the other side of the circular room. The tower had once been used by the Knights of St. John to monitor sea travel. This night, it served the same purpose, as Stan watched for the luxury yacht that had set sail from Israel earlier in the week. Owned by Moshe Reznick, a Knesset member and cofounder of the Jerusalem-based Third Temple Movement, the yacht would briefly anchor in the bay, pick up its precious cargo, then make the return trip to Haifa. From there, the Ark would be transported to Jerusalem. Stan and his gunnery sergeant, Boyd Braxton, would accompany the Ark on its sea voyage. The rest of his men would fly into Ben-Gurion Airport. Christian tourists making the pilgrimage to Jerusalem.

The yacht was due to arrive within the hour.

There were many who would argue that having been uncovered, the Ark should be placed in a museum. But there was only one place for the Ark, that place having been ordained by God. The yet-to-be-built Third Temple in Jerusalem.

Once constructed, the Third Temple would stand for a thousand years. As foretold by the prophet Ezekiel.

Stan was being aided in his endeavors by the members of the Third Temple Movement: Jews who fervently believed in the prophecies foretold by Ezekiel, certain that out of the ashes of the great Battle of Gog and Magog, a new Messiah would step forth.

Although some Christians condemned the Jews, accusing them of having killed the Savior, he knew that Jesus had himself been a Jew. As had been his parents. And all his forebears. Each and every member of the first Church had been a Jew. The Jews were the Chosen People, the custodians of the First and Second Temples, the original guardians of the Ark of the Covenant. And in the great battle to come, the Jews would prevail, fulfilling the destiny envisioned for them by Ezekiel.

Hearing a high-pitched chime emanate from his laptop computer, Stan lowered the night-vision goggles and walked back to the camp table.

Praise be. The much-anticipated e-mail from his comrades at the Third Temple Movement.

Seating himself in front of the laptop, he quickly pulled up the missive.

“It’s beautiful,” he whispered, examining the architectural blueprint that had been forwarded to him. “Absolutely beautiful.”

The construction plans for the Third Temple.

Based on the precise description given by the prophet Ezekiel—cubits having been converted to feet and inches—the temple would be constructed on the same parcel of sacred land where the First and Second Temples once stood. When completed, it would rival the beauty of even Solomon’s fabled marvel.